


A Fixation

by Soncasong



Category: Charité | Charité at War (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Slice of Life, Snapshots, World War II, because they deserve it, headcanons, mainly fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-21 23:01:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22505191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soncasong/pseuds/Soncasong
Summary: As his relationship with Otto progresses, Martin discovers Otto has a peculiar trait.
Relationships: Otto Marquardt/Martin Schelling
Comments: 11
Kudos: 67





	A Fixation

It would be another month before they became romantically involved, but Martin was already squirreling away all of Otto’s little quirks. Surreptitious glances, lingering just past acceptability when they were working at the hospital, morphed into conspicuous gawking when they were alone in Martin’s room, chatting over slices of bread smeared with marmalade pilfered from the Waldhausens. Otto embellished speech with his hands, knocking over jars and mugs in a curiously endearing way. He was recounting his recent involuntary outing with Nurse Christel with especially fervorous energy.

“She would not stop talking about the Fuhrer! It’s always Hitler this and Fuhrer that and -” A flailing arm bent in the mockery of a military salute bumped into an empty teacup. Martin, engrossed in observation, quickly reached out towards the tumbling ceramic before it collided with the floor.

“Sorry, Martin,” Otto said softly, apologetic. He was easy to read, his emotions a scarlet letter stitched on his chest. Dangerously so. 

“It’s fine, Otto,” Martin said, a chuckle behind his eyes, “It’ll take more than that to undermine the war effort.”

Otto laughed, light and airy, “So he has a sense of humor!”

Otto was looking at him with those twinkling eyes, overblown with the tenderness of newly realized attraction. Easy to read. Surely Otto knew what became of people like that, men who loved freely and openly and vanished into the concentration camps like the last sparks of a dying fire. Martin strained to focus on the gaudy flowered pitcher in his line of sight, the chipping remnant of his relationship with his mother. He was arrested a week after she thrust the vase, parceled in garish wrapping paper, into his arms with well wishes for the coming year, and they have not spoken since. 

He could still feel Otto’s gaze. The tension was thick and palpable, a silent manifestation of desires they both struggled to suppress. Martin chanced a furtive glance at Otto. His mouth was slightly parted, if those wide lips could ever be slight. Tantalizing. 

Martin stood abruptly, “Ah, I’ll grab… I’ll grab more sugar,” He mumbled, avoiding Otto’s gaze. 

He hastily retreated to his kitchen. Martin fumbled with the porcelain containers, trying to calm his racing heart. Though there was hardly a speck of sugar left in the sugar jar, he swiped the container off the counter nevertheless. He was willing to indulge Otto. Martin shut his eyes and slowed his breathing, gripping the sugar jar tight. To fall prey to his yearning now would be tantamount to suicide. Martin sighed. His heart was beating even faster, each frantic pump inflating the growing lump in his throat. Ignoring it was useless. Better to endure than to leave Otto waiting. 

Martin returned to the little dining space to find Otto staring at his cup, mouth pressed into a thin line. His brows were furrowed, pinching at the bridge of his nose, tracing the focused gaze of his eyes. The crucifix Otto always wore was hanging from his mouth, bobbing up and down in sporadic twitches. Martin smiled, cataloguing the new little quirk and squirreling it away in his mind.

“You’re back,” Otto said, perking up at the sight of Martin. The little crucifix was still steadfastly inserted in his mouth, dancing with each word, “That took awhile.”

Possessed by some strange specter of desire, Martin reached out, his hand finding its way to the crucifix nestled between Otto’s lips. He felt Otto take a breath, sharp and shaky. What a fool he was. 

“Unsanitary,” Martin said softly. He slipped the golden cross away from those soft, pliant lips, purposefully ignoring the urge to linger. He withdrew his finger, still buzzing from the contact.

Otto looked at him expectantly, eyes wide, mouth parted in a soft “o,” expectant. Martin sat down, pushed the sugar towards Otto, and looked away. He did not need a glance to know that Otto was still staring. Catastrophic. Yes, what a fool he was, what a fool both of them were.

* * *

Despite all his resistance, Martin and Otto began to see each other. One “last time” turned into two, then three, four, then Martin stopped keeping track. It was laughable, his attempt to delay the inevitable. 

Their encounters were short; secretive trysts in inconspicuous closets or empty rooms. Once or twice they met at Martin’s room, but the walls were thin and the bed had a penchant for creaking. There were ears embedded in the walls, and the ears had a predilection of reporting to Nazis. They tried their best to be quiet. The threat of discovery loomed over their heads like an executioner’s axe, poised to fall with one accidental misstep.

It was a folly then, when Martin agreed to meet in Otto’s room. Perhaps he wanted a change in scenery, away from the sterile and labratorical confines of the medical spaces where they shacked, or maybe he wanted something more intimate than the chemical shelves of morphine and anesthesia. Nevertheless, he was here, in Otto’s bed, with nothing between their bodies but air. One hand Martin pushed in Otto’s hair, thick and brittle with flaking gel. A fluid motion down Otto’s face finds Martin’s palm flush against Otto’s cheek, warm and pliant. His eyes were lidded, glazed over with the gloss of lust as Martin’s other hand worked its magic. 

“Martin… Martin,” Otto panted softly, squeezing his eyes shut. Martin shushed him with a finger over Otto’s lips. They had to keep their wits about. Any sounds that could be interpreted as deviance is a potential ticket to death. 

Otto opened his eyes, glanced down at Martin’s finger, and opened his mouth. Martin’s finger slipped in easily, Otto’s lips working around the digit. Taken aback, Martin stopped and stared. Otto was suckling his finger with fervor now, coating it with copious amounts of saliva. His brows were set heavy, looking up at Martin almost daringly, a challenge.

Martin chuckled, “Pervert.”

He slipped another finger into Otto’s mouth and resumed his previous ministrations. Otto’s mouth complied, a low moan rumbling from his throat. Martin shushed. 

This was a new development, a new button of Otto’s to push and pry and prod. Martin was willing to milk it for all it was worth.

* * *

The ruined attic became their refuge as the war chugged towards Berlin. Those crippling days when Martin was locked in De Crinis’ ward morphed into a constant undercurrent of fear. Fear of losing Otto and Karin to an air raid. Fear of the pair being discovered. Fear of the bloodstained fallout as Berlin contorted into a battleground. 

It was the quiet moments with Otto amid overnight shifts and raid sirens that assuaged Martin’s worries, however fleeting. Anni was there, sometimes, for Karin. It had taken the better part of 1944 for her to grow accustomed to Martin’s presence. Even now, he was uncertain whether her silence was tacit approval or just convenient tolerance. 

It had been an especially intense day at the surgery ward before this particular visit, an overcrowded apartment with a carelessly shallow bunker swallowing a full course of incendiaries, its wounded residents flooding into the Charit é. Ceaselessly Martin had assisted the Sauerbruchs, forced to rest when Doctor Jung realized he had not eaten in over twelve hours. 

“Can you believe Nurse Christel still believes in the ultimate victory?” Martin scoffed. He deftly sliced the bread nabbed from the pantry, smearing it with black market butter. Karin cooed softly, nestled in Otto’s lap.

“Well, you know how she is. She’ll believe in the Fuhrer even when the Red Army is breathing down her neck.”

Martin shook his head, “She’ll get us all killed. Even De Crinis knows a hospital is not a warzone. More bread?”

Otto accepted the portion gratefully. It saddened Martin to see him so gaunt and shallow, bony with fugitive stress. It was a small mercy that Otto’s eyes still shine, his twinkling laughter still coming easy.

“A sculptor came by today,” Martin chuckled, “Guess she thought we could use some art in all this chaos. Her name’s Yrsa von Leistner. Wanted to make a bust of Sauerbruch.”

“You think you can ask her to make one of you?” Otto asked cheekily, “I get lonely up here sometimes.”

“Even with Karin?”

“I need a man.”

Martin scoffed, “Not in front of the baby, Otto.”

He moved to clear the makeshift table, dusting away the gathered crumbs. Martin stood, giving Otto a quick chaste kiss, and began to tidy the attic. Otto, despite his best attempts, tended to be careless with where he placed his scant possessions. 

He picked up some of Karin’s toys, makeshift devices devised by Otto when time dragged to a slog in the attic, and found their place in her toybox, a mangled leather suitcase repurposed by Anni. He straightened out the mismatched furniture, covertly smuggled up the attic by Martin in the dead of night. A new row of lacerations have torn into the folding chair. Martin will fix that on his next visit. 

He returned to Otto’s bed to find Otto hunched over the edge, pensively watching Karin frolic with a wooden ball and gnawing on the frayed, swollen nail bed of his thumb. Martin picked his way to Otto. He sat down, wrapping an arm around Otto’s waist, relishing in the newfound heat.

“What’s wrong?”

Otto sighed, thumb persistent against his mouth, “I’m just scared. For you, for me and Karin. For us. For the future.”

Martin squeezed Otto tighter. He shared Otto’s fears, acutely felt the terror of sitting in a bunker attempting to soothe frantic patients while the man he loved was only protected from the bombs by a flimsy covering of mildewed wood. Or the dread of walking into the sickbay with Nurse Christel’s eyes boring into his back, waiting for mistake manifest. It was the back-turning, tacky-palming nervousness of picking his way through the ruined staff apartments to Otto, praying no one spared the time for curiosity.

But he was with Otto now, if for an ephemeral moment. So Martin swallowed his fear, reached up a hand, and pulled Otto’s thumb from his mouth.

“You can start by not teaching Karin bad habits.”

Otto laughed, eyes still twinkling, and Martin pulled him a little closer. 

* * *

  
  


A bedridden Otto was curiously more mischievous than a caged Otto. Once hostilities ceased and the frequency of Russians carrying arms plummeted, Otto made a habit of teasing and flirting with Martin whenever he visited. Martin supposed it was the painkillers, but they were fortunate that there were more urgent matters pressing the general populace than two men being a bit less tact with their love. So Martin indulged Otto. It was hard not to. 

As Anni and Artur were occupied with their divorce, Martin often took responsibility for Karin. Anni had grown warmer towards him, even divulging to him her plans to head east after the settlement. Karin had begun to talk, her baby babbles stutteringly slurred. Anni was rightfully miffed when her first word was “Otto” instead of “Mama.” Otto was insufferable. 

“Anni told me she got a letter from your mother,” Martin said, perching himself on the stool next to Otto’s bed. 

Otto smiled up at Martin, “What did it say?”

Martin reached into his pocket, searching, “She’s glad you’re okay. And that you have to visit her as soon as you’re better.”

“With Karin?” Otto said hopefully.

“I’ll mention it to Anni.”

Martin’s fumbling stopped when he finally found the object he was searching for. He pulled out the lollipop, dazzlingly artificial, and unwrapped it before handing it to Otto.

Otto’s eyebrows raised, “Where did you get this?”

“The Allies are milling about near the Brandenburg gate, giving out candy to kids. I paid one to get this for you.”

Otto laughed, “How devious, Martin Schelling! But why a lollipop?”

Martin shrugged, “Thought you’d want something to suck on.”

“Jerk!” Otto made a show of pushing Martin away before collapsing in a fit of giggles. Martin smiled when he saw the lollipop already caught between Otto’s lips. Soon, Martin hoped. Soon he will be able to kiss those lips whenever he pleased, to whisper “good mornings” and “goodnights” against them without worrying if he will ever see Otto again. 

“Martin.”

“Yes, Otto?”

“I lo-” A finger pressed against Otto’s lips, a quiet hush of air from Martin.

“Get better first,” Martin said softly, “Then you can say that to me every day.”

Martin’s hand retreated to his side. Otto looked up, a smile creeping up his eye, lollipop jutting cheekily between his lips.

“Deal.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I noticed that Otto's lips were pretty big and then this dumb headcanon popped into my head and I could not let it go. The style's a little experimental and I had Emily Dickinson on the brain. Apologies on the clumsy first attempt at.... uh smut? Slightly raunchy touching? Who knows. I will get this fandom's fic count to the double digits or die trying. I'll probably die trying. Many thanks to [pantu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantu) for being a wonderful beta.


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